


In the Skin

by Prosodi



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Body Paint, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandral comes to Loki with a strange request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Skin

Loki knows Fandral is a fool who will lose any enchanted token he could give him. For anyone else requesting a protective charm an amulet or a chain would be perfectly acceptable. For Fandral, it is not. Loki could give Fandral a mark on the sole of his favorite boots and he would forget to wear them. He could braid something in Fandral's hair and Fandral would likely have it cut. There is no token sufficient for Fandral, who is as likely to shed any worn object within a fortnight for women and wine, who is more likely to leave his belongings in a hurry the next morning with an angry father or brother at his heel.

Fandral, who has a high opinion of himself but loves pleasing others more than he does preserving his own ego, says, "You're probably right," in a way that is light and easy. Frandral says plenty and very little of it sticks - to him or to anyone else. "Isn't there anything you can put on me?" he asks, and Loki - who is tired of being endlessly harangued, snaps his book shut.

"Fine, take off your clothes."

Fandral, trusting Fandral, doesn't think to raise his eyebrows until he is stripping off his pants. He rears up briefly then. "Ha, oh this would wound my reputation," he laughs and then undresses the rest of the way, shifting around barefoot on the cool stone without any shame (though he does check to see if the drapes are drawn - Loki thinks he's disappointed to see that they are).

Loki makes him stand there hanging in the wind while he finds ink and pours in into metal bowl. Fandral doesn't complain, though he does shift his arms around: first crossed, then uncrossed, then his hands at his waist, then his sides. He fidgets from one foot to the other and gossips like a woman as if he wasn't naked: he saw this lady and that shield going at it in the stables, he thinks so and so may be with child, he bets his teeth that Hogun is in love with a fair young girl who sits at the third - no, excuse him, the fourth chair from the Queen herself at the long banquet table. "I don't blame him," Fandral says. "She is quite pretty." Loki doesn't bother to correct him or to take his bets; there is little sport in making Fandral out to be foolish.

"Stop squirming or I'll do it all wrong on purpose," Loki says, dipping his first two fingers into the ink. He steadies Fandral when his word isn't enough: a thumb jabbing hard under his shoulder blade. Fandral stills - mostly: he cranes his head around in an attempt to watch. Loki jabs him again.

The spell is stupid, rudimentary, but requires no less precision than any other. The painting of signs on the skin is disappointingly barbaric, but the only sure thing Loki knows that will work; except in extraordinary circumstances - none of which Loki sees Fandral getting himself into any time soon - it is difficult to leave behind one's skin. So Loki uses his fingers and paints long, steady strokes across Fandral's back which is strong and finely muscled. Fandral squirms as Loki's fingers slide low to paint a chain across the small of his back. His waist is very narrow. Loki pauses. "I'm sorry, did you want me to accidentally turn you into some kind of cat?"

"Can you do that?" Fandral all but shrieks, shoulders coming up. He rocks forward slightly onto the balls of his feet, suddenly wary.

"No," Loki half lies. Not without significantly more effort and Fandral's (unwitting) agreement anyway.

Loki finishes the chain across the small of Fandral's back. He dips his fingers in the ink again and circles to his front. The fine blond hair on Fandral's chest makes it difficult to shape the marks there; Fandral starts to make a joke and Loki gives him a cold look, one eyebrow raised. He closes his mouth and studies some far off point beyond Loki's shoulder. Loki crouches down in front of him. Fandral studies the far off point much harder.

His thigh is sturdy. Loki runs two broad stripes down the top of it, over Fandral's knees - which are knobby -, all the way to his ankles - which are surprisingly thick. His calves are sharply defined: Fandral is very fast, surefooted. He is a good, if showy, dancer. Loki has seen him pivot neatly on his heel and stab a wolf six times his size. Loki leaves thumb prints on the tops of Fandral feet. They have no point, but he likes how they look.

"There." Loki straightens.

Fandral breaks off his single-minded dedication to staring at the wall and shifts, awkwardly Loki thinks, back a half step.

"Done?"

"Finished."

Fandral brightens but doesn't look Loki in the eye. He begins to gather his clothes, begins to say thank you.

"You'll have to let the ink dry," Loki warns.

Fandral suddenly stiffens. He is bent at the waist, clothes in hand. "Have I ruined it?" he asks, mortified.

"Turn slowly. Let me see."

He turns a small circle, shuffling in place. Loki admires his work. It's delightfully crude, arcs in strange ways and changes the way the lines of Fandral's body read to Loki's eye: his shoulders seem broader, hip narrow, legs incredibly long and lean. "It's fine." Loki wipes his ink stained fingers on his pants and doesn't worry about the mark it leaves. "Go stand by the window," he tells him. "The breeze will dry you faster."


End file.
